The glow of the monitor lit his face, the room otherwise swallowed in shadows. His headset hung around his neck now, game paused mid-match, though you knew his friends were probably cursing in his ear.

“You’re distracting me,” he muttered, but his smirk gave him away.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I didn’t say anything.”

His chair squeaked as he spun halfway toward you, controller dangling loosely in one hand. The warmth in his eyes softened the cocky edge in his voice — that look like he’d log off mid game if you asked, no hesitation.

“Shouldn’t you finish?” you teased, nodding at the frozen screen.

“Game will still be there.” He tossed the controller aside, leaning back with that lazy confidence that drove you crazy. “You won’t.”